Ash Desert—barren, cracked, and wind-bitten. The sun hung like a molten coin above the bleak expanse. Within it stood Obsidian Castle, carved from a jagged hill of volcanic glass, its spires sharp as fangs and its gate a gaping maw.
Inside, in a shadowed throne chamber, Nara lounged across a bed of sand-hardened cushions, chewing meat from the charred rib of a giant Sandworm slain by her own hand.
A man in bronze armor knelt in the doorway, his head bowed low.
"My lady, he is coming."
"Who?" Nara asked without looking, still biting into her meal.
"The Lord of Armaments."
She froze mid-bite.
Then a grin, wide and dangerous, spread across her face. "So, he's finally coming here. About time." She rose, flinging the gnawed bone aside. "Prepare for Wagar! Call every beast-rider, every mercenary, every mad soul who answers to me."
The man bowed lower. "Yes, Lady Nara."
Nara stepped into the open air, the desert heat kissing her scarred skin. Her eyes burned like copper in the sunlight. "It's time," she whispered, "to have a blast."
Meanwhile...
Kalem walked at a steady pace across the scorching flats, his iron-tipped staff thudding into the earth with each step. His armor was unfastened at the chest, exposing pale scarred skin that shimmered slightly with heat. Behind him rode Garrick, hunched forward on a sun-worn mule, scribbling into his totem scroll even as sand got in his ink.
"You could have built a carriage," Garrick muttered, "or at least a wagon. Why are we walking through this gods-cursed desert like a pair of exiled prophets?"
"Because this isn't a visit," Kalem replied. "It's a reckoning."
Garrick blinked at him, then quickly wrote that down.
"Who are we reckoning with?" he asked, trying not to slide off the mule's narrow back.
Kalem didn't answer. Instead, he reached into the air and summoned a small metallic sphere from his inventory. It unfolded with a click—tiny treads, a whirring core, and a golden eye. It hovered beside them, scanning.
"Scout," Kalem said simply. "This place changed. It's not just sand and teeth anymore."
By midday, they passed charred bones of old caravans, shredded banners from half-forgotten mercantile houses, and the remains of a broken siege engine—half buried in a dune like the fossil of a dead dream. All bore the same scorch pattern, blackened and circular.
"Obsidian burn rings," Garrick muttered. "The signature of Nara's war alchemists. She's made this place hers."
Kalem only nodded, eyes narrowed at the spires growing on the horizon.
Back in Obsidian Castle...
Men beat drums made of bone and hide. Black flags with red circles flapped across the battlements. In the training pit, half-mad berserkers painted their bodies with ash and drank from cauldrons of stimulant root broth. War was not a task here—it was a celebration.
Isolde stood beside Nara now, arms crossed. Her long dark hair tied back, the blue light of her eyes dimmed to cold steel. Unlike the others, she was calm.
"You sure this is a good idea?" Isolde asked.
Nara didn't look at her. "No. That's why it's exciting."
"He'll break them. All of them."
"I know," Nara said. "But that's part of the fun. Watching him do it. You've felt it too, haven't you? We're not the same people we were when we started."
Isolde's gaze lingered on the war drums, then turned back to her friend. "What is the goal here, Nara? If you don't plan to kill him, why summon an army?"
Nara finally faced her. "Because I want the world to see what happens when the old madness meets the new order. I want them to feel the shift when they break. And then—when all's dust and iron—I'll ask him what he plans next."
"You could've just written a letter," Isolde said, deadpan.
Nara laughed.
That night...
Kalem and Garrick made camp beside a ruined waystone. Kalem barely rested—his hands moved through gear, wire, and plate, assembling strange bits into a handheld contraption.
"What is it this time?" Garrick asked, laying down his parchment.
"A flame-walker," Kalem replied, "moves without fire, over sand, silent. I want it to reach the gates before we do."
"You think she'll stop us at the threshold?"
"No," Kalem said softly. "I think she'll welcome us. And that's worse."
The next morning...
From a ledge atop Obsidian Castle, Nara saw the two specks drawing near. Her laughter echoed over the wind-swept cliffs.
"They're here! Sound the bells! Light the pits! Send up the bone-crows!"
The castle shook with celebration. No siege, no alarm—this was a festival, Wagar, their way of honoring war not through conquest but chaos.
Garrick's face paled as they neared the gates, a hundred drummers pounding in rhythm as ash clouds bloomed above the battlements.
"I feel like we've walked into a den of theatre-addicted cannibals," he said.
"They're not cannibals," Kalem replied. "They're visionaries. Just... loud ones."
The gate opened. Nara herself stood waiting, flanked by guards in stitched bronze armor and Isolde in a long desert robe.
"Well, well," Nara grinned. "Look what the sand blew in. Come, Kalem, let's have a blast."